Sopor
by Chianno
Summary: This is just the beginnings of a fanfic, doesn't have a direction yet but hey, posting anyway


This is just the beginnings of a fic that doesn't even have an overall direction yet...bear with me.  
  
Usual disclaimer, I don't own any of these characters, never will, raa, you know the drill  
  
Please R&R  
  
The icy chill of the drab hotel room seemed to seep under her skin as she sat quietly holding his hand. How long had it been now? Minutes, hours and days seemed to converge into one unfathomable blur as she waited for a sign, any sign, that the cold and lifeless body laid out across the bed in front of her had managed to cling onto some semblance of life. There was no way to know. She had dared to hope, perhaps even allowed herself to believe that he would soon rise from his deathly slumber and continue as though nothing had come to pass. After all, that was what usually happened wasn't it? He would get knocked down, he would get up, and he would live to fight another day. That was how it always was. But this time, it had been so long. She had waited by his side faithfully, leaving only when absolutely necessary. She had made him comfortable, read to him, talked to him, even sang to him in the hope he would wake in protest at her caterwauling, but he had never even stirred. Not once had his eyelids flickered, not once had he made a sound. It was beginning to feel hopeless.  
She rose from her bedside chair and walked the few paces to the window. Outside, she knew the sun was almost below the horizon, that the sky would be streaked with purple hues and the ground blanketed in shadow, but she dared not open the curtain just yet. She checked her watch and stretched out languorously, then wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to replace some of the warmth that rolled off her and into the small room. She listened to the silence around her for a few seconds, willing for some tiny sound to come from him, but there was nothing. Silently cursing herself and him, she opened the curtains.   
The stars had barely begun to appear in the darkening sky, and the whole city was bathed in dusk. Winter was coming to L.A., she could feel it. The fresh light from the window gave the room a slightly more cheery tinge to its walls, but she barely noticed. Instead, she returned to her former position by his side, and resumed her vigil of watching, and waiting.   
  
************  
The dusty book lay open on the table, its pages a vast wealth of information that had taken millennia to collect, but it no longer interested him. Behind this newly abandoned text lay several more, each strewn carefully so that certain pages remained visible to him, each covered in a thin film of dust. He slowly removed the white gloves he wore to protect the ancient leather bound texts and shook his head. Nothing. Not even a hint of an explanation for what had happened to his employer, his leader, his friend. Just beyond the door of his office lay more books strewn across the vast hotel entrance hall, all opened at certain pages, each as ancient as the last, each offering as little hope as the last. A gentle snoring sound was coming from across the hallway, and he realised that Gunn had fallen asleep propped up against the wall, book open across his knee. Sleep. Yes, he needed sleep. He had been awake for nearly 36 hours already. What good could he do if he was tired? Sleep. Yes, sleep would be a very good idea.  
  
************  
  
Pain. Yes, pain. He remembered that. It had washed over him in a sudden wave that rippled through his body to his fingertips and toes. And the need to make it stop, yes, that was there too. Cotton wool. His mind felt like thick cotton wool. He couldn't fight his way from one thought to the next, he couldn't even find them in this...this...fog of insubstantial thoughts and dreams and forgotten memories. He seemed to be lost in blackness, nothing solid for him to hold onto, to stop his descent into nothingness. If only he could think straight, if only he knew where he was, if only... if only there weren't so many questions and so few answers. He felt weak and delirious, the memory of pain still etched on his aching muscles and joints. This wasn't right. No. None of this was right.  
  
************ 


End file.
